Wintersong
by WalkingThePlank
Summary: Sherlock has been gone for two years, but John receives a lovely gift. Based on Wintersong by Sarah McLachlan and includes lyrics. This is a HARD M. M for language and for content. If you're underage in your country, do not read. (Oh, and I think there might be a formatting issue, let me know if this affects you, thanks!)


_ It's late and morning's in no hurry_

_But sleep won't set me free_

_I lie awake and try to recall_

_How your body felt beside me_

Sherlock had been gone now for over two years. John had tried to move on, sure. He'd thrown himself into his work, he'd become quite a respected doctor. But, he still felt completely empty. He'd went out on a few dates, but they were all insignificant. No one could compare to Sherlock's companionship and so he didn't bother to carry on with any of those women. ("Boring." Sherlock's voice shouted at him each time he went out with them.) He had tea with Lestrade occasionally and once or twice with Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson watched after him, made sure he was fed and had clean clothes to wear.

But, John was alone, really. So. Completely. Alone. He allowed himself a cry once every few months. His therapist had called it "healthy" and "cathartic." And well, if he slept in Sherlock's bed a few times a week, then who was any the wiser?

It was a Tuesday. A simple cold November morning. John rolled out of Sherlock's bed, put on Sherlock's dressing gown and shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes of sleep. When his tea was done, he drank it slowly, turning the warm cup over in his hands, blinking tears away. He could hear echoes of Christmas music coming from the shops outside. The holidays were a difficult time for the lonely, weren't they?

It was just a Tuesday, is all.

The bell buzzed. John stood an swore to himself that if carolers were starting this early, he'd give them a good piece of his mind. He wrenched the door open.

"Good, you're still here" Mycroft greeted. "Inside. It's very important." Mycroft slipped off his soaked loafers and hung his damp jacket in the foyer. Then followed John up to the sitting room.

"Don't sit there," John warned. It was Sherlock's, didn't he have any idea?

"Right, yes."

Mycroft took a seat on the opposite side of the sofa, closer to John. If he noticed John was wearing Sherlock's robe, he didn't indicate as much.

"Would you like tea?" John tried to maintain his basic manners, but truly hated to be bothered, if he was honest.

"No, no. I'm fine, thank you. Now, listen to me."

John leaned forward, beginning to become worried.

"Please don't be angry. Because, I can explain everything. Just give me time. Sherlock is back-"

"-Excuse me?" John choked.

"Please, just listen."

"Yes, he's back. He was never dead, John."

Mycroft explained everything matter-of-factually, like a news reporter would. John blinked back tears and worried his lip with his teeth. How could Sherlock do that to him? John's heart hung heavy and low, dropping into his gut.

"Sh-sh... Sherlock," John whispered. His eyes fell shut and his entire body fell forward, hitting the floor hard.

John awoke some time later to Mycroft smoothing a warm, wet washcloth over his brow.

"I hadn't expected you to faint.," Mycroft told him, pulling him to his feet and helping him to his chair. John's head was throbbing. The state of his heart had not changed.

"Well, what did you expect me to do?" John groaned.

"Truly, I expected violence. Sherlock hadn't even guessed you'd pass out."

That made John grin. Hearing his best mate was never dead was one thing, but when it hit John that Sherlock was really somewhere out there, thinking about him, predicting his reaction, even... Well, it made John's mood soar. He couldn't contain the smile.

"What did Sherlock think I'd do?"

"Demand to see him and not take 'no' for an answer. Scream at me, most likely."

"Well, I haven't gotten there yet." John half laughed. "Where is he? I need to see him. Please, prove to me you're not having me on."

"I'm not, I assure you. But, he's still facing serious charges. Murder, fraud, you name it."

John nodded, "I understand. Blindfold me, if you must. But, please take me to him."

"You know I can't." Pity dripped heavily from his words. John tried not to raise his voice, just to prove Sherlock wrong.

The two men went back and forth for nearly an hour. Finally, John gave in. But, Mycroft reassured him.

"You know I work quickly. His name will be cleared and he will come home to you."

John sighed, "Why did he have to even put me through all this? Why didn't he just tell me, instead of hiding and torturing me?"

"He would have told you, if he could have. But, he loves you, John. He couldn't put you in that danger."

"He...?"

Mycroft nodded slowly.

John was off for the day anyhow but he called the hospital, telling the head of surgery, "Oh, Lewis. I've gotten the bird flu, I believe! I'm being taken care of, but I'm not sure how long I'll be out." Lewis gave him his best wishes.

_The lake is frozen over  
The trees are white with snow  
And all around  
Reminders of you  
Are everywhere I go_

John immediately got to cleaning the flat, taking care to not actually move anything of Sherlock's, just as he never had. He dusted the insides and outsides of everything, he scoured the floors and the baseboards. He Hoovered every piece of fabric (curtains, couches, rugs...)

He cleaned for days. He eventually decided to wash all of Sherlock's clothes. He then put everything away in the armoire very neatly, to prepare him for his return. When that was done, John left the flat. He was out of food anyway. He smiled at the cameras on the street, hoping Sherlock was watching them with Mycroft. He bought Sherlock gifts. Christmas presents, really. They'd never been much for exchanging gifts, but John was much too excited to NOT purchase everything that reminded him of Sherlock. John had previously avoided public for that reason, the memories and reminders. But, everything was different now. He did this for several days, going to shopping centres outside of town to avoid his colleagues. It was now 8 December, and still no Sherlock. He'd thought Mycroft had meant days. Perhaps he'd meant months. The sinking feeling returned. How much longer must he wait? He phoned Mycroft, who answered on the last ring.

"I need to see him, Mycroft."

"And soon, you shall."

"But, how much longer? Where is he? Bring him here, I'll hide him, take care of him!"

"He's in London, John. He's being interviewed by several agents a day so I cannot release him just yet. You'll see him before New Years. Promise."

John hung up the phone, frustrated. But, his heart still beat with excitement. They were in the same city.

John thought of how he'd washed Sherlock's clothes. Perhaps he didn't want John touching his things. He rushed to Sherlock's room and threw all the clothes from the armoire, trying to remember which piece of furniture each article of clothing had been strewn over, or which garment had been pushed into which corner. Finally, satisfied, he ate lunch in the kitchen. But, before he finished, he felt silly for dirtying the room. Sherlock would know they'd been touched anyhow, he might as well re-do the washing.

Which, he did.

By 23 December, there was a massive collection of gifts for Sherlock in the corner of the sitting room. There was no Christmas tree or decorations because Sherlock detested them. Ans the gifts were wrapped in wrapping paper unrelated to Christmas, of course. John had only wrapped them to have something to do. As soon as Sherlock picked one up, he'd know what they all were. John chuckled fondly. He knew he'd gone overboard. But, Sherlock would understand.

On Christmas Eve, John cooked. He squeezed a ham and a turkey into the small oven, to cook slowly overnight. Because maybe Sherlock would be home, and that's cause for celebration. And, if he's not home, well, he could freeze the leftovers for him. The smell of Christmas soon floods the flat and John feels so silly, like he's preparing for a date with a woman. He feels like... he fees like he's in love. His blood pressure goes through the roof when he imagines Sherlock back in the flat. He thinks about hugging him. And he knows Sherlock will resist because he's not affectionate. He'll probably tell John to "pull it together." Yes, John feels like he's in love but, surely, he's not. Anyone would feel this way after two years of believing their friend was dead. Yes, everything is all right. Sherlock will settle in, start work, and everything will go back to normal.

John turns the oven to a lower temperature and goes in the for the night... and lies down on Sherlock's bed, on top of the covers as not to ruffle them any worse. He takes several deep breaths, hoping to get a bit of Sherlock's scent, but he knows there's none left. It's been gone for years. John falls asleep holding himself, watching a few flakes of snow fall outside the window, illuminated by the street lights.

"Merry Christmas, dear!" Mrs. Hudson called. "I've brought biscuits!" John stretched out and rubbed his face. He straightened out the covers and threw Sherlock's robe around himself.

He greeted Mrs. Hudson and kissed her cheek. He wants to tell her badly that soon their housemate would be rejoining them, but he bites down on a ginger biscuit instead and they take a seat to exchange gits. John gives Mrs. Hudson a gold necklace and she gives him a Bluetooth headset because, "you're quite important and all the young, important lads have these blue-teeth!" She then takes out the ham and turkey, stating that John, "actually did quite well." She ladles sauce over the food.

"I'm going home to cook the rest and I'll be back for dinner, dear-y." John nods and is left alone again, to wait for Sherlock. Waiting, like always. So, he pours himself a glass of scotch, even in the early hour and then pours a second and a third. He then turns on Christmas music and puts on the gold paper crown Mrs. Hudson left for him and begins dancing with his glass of scotch.

_"I'll be home for Christmas! If only in my dreams!_" he sings loudly, he then stumbles across the corner of the rug, breaking the glass. He shrugs and continues drinking from the bottle, leaving the broken glass in the floor. Drunenk dancing was most like not the most appropriate entertainment. So he decides to step outside, and enjoy the ever piling layer of snow across London, hoping it might sober him by dinner. He dances towards the door, doing an odd shuffle and scoot dance with his feet.

As soon as he opens the door, Sherlock is there, 3 metres from the door of 221B.

_And this is how I see you  
In the snow on Christmas morning  
Love and happiness surround you  
As you throw your arms up to the sky  
I keep this moment by and by_

He feels his jaw drop. He spent a month preparing, but he's not prepared at all. He wants to run to him, embrace him, but he's frozen to the spot, so he just loosk him over, the alcohol still thrumming in his veins but dissipating quickly. The cold stings his bare skin and it feels like tiny needles are pricking him all over, but he just cannot move. Sherlock has the same haircut, maybe a bit longer, he looks more tired, a bit paler. He's wearing that same old coat and scarf. Sherlock grins in a way that seems hopeful and apologetic. He spread his arms wide. John flinched. The last time John had seen him, he'd stood like this before throwing himself from the building. The snow lands softly in his hair and across the span of his long arms. He looks so beautiful like that. Everything swirling around him, white and pure and stale cold. Sherlock's lips are wind-chapped and his cheeks are red. It feels like a new beginning.

"It's me, John." Sherlock took a tentative step forward. "I'm back." John still couldn't move. "Please," Sherlock says, still holding his arms wide, his palms facing the sky like he's waiting to catch him. (_"and this is how I see you, in the snow on Christmas morning, as you throw your arms up to the sky_.")

John then felt like he was flying, down the steps, across the length of snow-laden sidewalk and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's strong middle, refusing to ever let go. John's face was soaked with tears and nose drippings before he even realized he'd been weeping, sobbing, even. His crown has crinkled against Sherlock's face. Sherlock removes it and lets it slip to the ground and then hugs John back lightly, and silently.

"Goddammit, Sherlock." He says into his ear. "Goddammit."

"Come on, John." Sherlock says in a tone John doesn't quite recognize. "You're barefoot and it's freezing."

John allows himself to be pushed back inside slowly, never withdrawing his face from Sherlock's neck. Inside, in the warmth, John can smell Sherlock, his signature scent. It gives John hope, his heart jumps up through his chest, causing John to feel nauseated. John pushes, putting Sherlock's back flush against the foyer wall.

"Don't leave," escapes John's lips, his thoughts becoming all too vocalized for his comfort.

"I'm not. I'm not," Sherlock insists calmly, soothing John. The door creaks open and shuts promptly. He knows Mrs. Hudson has just seen them but he cannot direct enough of his mind away from Sherlock to care. He can't stop crying!

He sniffles hard. "I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

The taller man tells him to shut up and then squeezes him, finally returning the fervor.

"Oh, John" Sherlock whispers. He strokes the nape of John's neck. "Please, John."

He's not sure what Sherlock is asking of him, but he'll give it to him- whatever it is. The man who would have died so that John could live.

"Come, John. Let's sit. We need to talk."

Finally, John unwraps himself from Sherlock's form and they move to the sitting room, each of them sitting in the usual spots as if two years hadn't passed since they'd last been like this. John finds it difficult to look Sherlock in the eyes, a mixture of being scared, embarrassed and overall just uneasy. But, he forces himself to look. The whites of Sherlock's eyes are red, but the skin around them is unaffected. John knows that Sherlock can keenly control his appearance as need be. But, he also knows, as a doctor, there is not much to be done about the eyes themselves. Sherlock has been crying, too. John smiles, now feeling less silly and more grounded. Sherlock tells him everything Mycroft had already, but he tells it more quickly and somehow with more detail.

"I cannot apologize enough, John. I just couldn't bare to allow any harm to come to you. Understand?" John nods. "I know Mycroft already told you, but you deserved to hear it from me."

John relives the moment of learning Sherlock was alive. Him sitting here, grinning like a fool.

"I'm surprised you passed out, John." The two men chuckle and John relaxes a bit more. "And, you didn't have to do all this cleaning for me."

John sits straighter and asks, "How'd you know? About the passing out and the cleaning?"

Sherlock points his index finger and indicates several places around the room. It takes John a moment to understand.

"You... you... there were cameras in here the whole bloody time!" John is mad, and disconcerted and... amused.

"Obviously. If I couldn't be here to watch after you, I made sure that Mycroft would."

Tears threaten John's eyes once more and he swear at himself, internally, that after this day he'll never cry again.

John says, "I suppose you saw what all your gifts are, as well?"

"I attempted not to look. But, just from the obvious shape and size and estimated weight that at least four are books and one is a scarf."

John laughs, then stands and brings all fourteen wrapped packages to Sherlock for him to open. Sherlock doesn't show much gratitude or excitement, but he's Sherlock. John hadn't expected anything different. But, he knows Sherlock well enough to see that he likes the gifts.

"I apologize, John," Sherlock says, standing. "I didn't get you anything." He takes off his coat. "But-"

"-well, I hardly expected anything. And you saved my life, I could never give you enough to make us even." Sherlock makes the single stride towards John and puts his heavy coat over John's shoulders.

"This is for you. I wore this the entire time I was gone. Perhaps it will help make up for the lost time."

"That's- that's a beautiful sentiment. Thank you. Truly."

John built a fire in the fireplace then ran upstairs to his room to dress for dinner. Khaki trousers, a red button up, and Sherlock's coat, of course. on his way back to the kitchen, he silently slipped Sherlock's dressing gown back into his room, knowing Sherlock had noticed but hoping it would not be mentioned.

Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock at dinner, "I'm not surprised, Dear. If anyone can cheat death, it's you!" Sherlock smiled at her graciously. She added "Oh, and I'm not surprised by this either." She motioned from Sherlock to John with a forkful of Ham. Neither men said anything but Sherlock smirked and John blushed.

After dinner, Sherlock plopped down in his spot with one of the books John had given him, and a glass of wine. He undid the top two buttons of his light blue shirt. John could blog, read, watch telly. But he just sty by Sherlock and watched him. He knew Sherlock hated that but he allowed it. John was being treated like a wounded puppy but he didn't mind terribly. When he grew tired, he took off Sherlock's coat, pulling his feet into the chair and fell asleep with Sherlock's coat over him like a blanket. The sound of Sherlock turning the pages lulled him into sleep.

He was far gone when Sherlock later nudged his shoulder.

"You're quite accustomed to sleeping in my bed."

John gave a curt nod.

"Well, come on, then." Sherlock led him to his room and laid him down, threw the coat across the back of the chair in the corner, with the dressing gown. Sherlock stretched his long form out beside him. They faced one another. Sherlock touch John's hairline with two fingers, then the curve his ear.

"I'm re-cataloging," Sherlock answered the unasked question. "I once had every detail memorized, but with time, details change and memories fade."

John's eyes became heavy once more. He took several deep breaths, enjoying the return of Sherlock's musky scent (firewood, wine, sweat...)

"Don't fall asleep," Sherlock told him in a near nestled his head closer to John's, his gaze not faltering."May I?"

John pushed his face closer, brushing their lips together. Sherlock's heavy breath filled, John's mouth. John pushed harder, wanting to become as close to Sherlock as possible, wanting to absolutely envelope him. The clash of teeth didn't bother him, didn't slow Sherlock. Sherlock pushed John's shoulders back, pushed him into the mattress, attacking John's mouth. Kissing him so deeply and languidly that John felt heady and dizzy, pulling Sherlock to him, unable to be as close as he desired. Sherlock pulled the front of John's shirt apart, buttons hitting the floor. Sherlock lowered his head, kissing John's neck. John pulled his arms out of the sleeves, before turning to Sherlock's shirt, unbuttoning one at a time, always having more patience than Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathes. "I can't stop, John." Even as he turns his tongue and teeth to John's nipples. John hisses, grabbing Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock's quick fingers have John's trousers undone and off of his legs in a short second. The cold air hits John's legs. He wants Sherlock, wants more of him. Wants this to never end. Sherlock is everywhere, his hands and mouth constantly moving. John groans, tying to get his fingers on the clasp of Sherlock's trousers. But Sherlock pulls them off for him and then grounds his hips down against John's, both of them noticeably excited.

"More, Sherlock " John says into Sherlock's ear before biting the lobe, pulling sinful sounds from the panting man above him. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock as Sherlock paid very careful attention to every inch of John's chest. Sherlock's length lay thick and heavy in John's palm. Time passed all too slowly and all too quickly simultaneously. John's legs were up across Sherlock's shoulder, his cock being lavished completely by Sherlock's clever mouth. And too quickly he was telling Sherlock, "No, not yet!" His cock had just been released when his bottom began to be stretched and explored. Sherlock licked his hand and then added a third finger. John wanted to scream, but felt pleasure even through the pain. Sherlock pulled away, concern on his face.

"No, it's good. Please."

Sherlock continued. John reached down and pulled Sherlock's hips closer to him, begging him. Sherlock placed his, now leaking, cock at John's opening and pushed in slowly. Primal, guttural sounds came from deep within John, encouraging the other man to keep on. Soon Sherlock was withholding nothing, pushing forward at a steady rhythm, not breaking eye contact with the blonde man beneath him. John knew Sherlock was close when his movements slowed and he began to stroke John at the same pace. Sherlock lowered his head and kissed John's mouth, biting his lip and groaning. John rocked his hips, telling Sherlock he was ready. Sherlock sped the pace of his hand and his hips and soon both men were calling out names that they had hardly allowed themselves to speak over the last two years. Hearing his name on Sherlock's lips in this moment told John that he would never regret this moment. No, this was not something to never be spoken of again. This was a beginning.

In the early morning, even before the sun, John sat up in Sherlock's bed, blogging. Sherlock sipped tea, standing by the window, turning his attention from the snow falling outside to John, and then back again.

"John, you mustn't judge me. Please don't."

"I missed you, Sherlock, yeah. And I'm mad as hell that I couldn't be with you, but how could I be mad? You saved me. You were completely selfless. I couldn't punish you for being human, for doing what I'd have done."

"No, I know."

"What then?"

Sherlock laid his tea down on the small table by the bed and sat by John. He kissed his forehead, where many new worry lines had formed.

"I love you, obviously."

John wanted to respond, wanted to tell Sherlock he loved him too... but he couldn't stop laughing. John had never felt anything as close to pure joy as he had on this day. This wonderful Christmas.

**Wintersong- Sarah McLachlan**

_The lake is frozen over_  
_The trees are white with snow_  
_And all around_  
_Reminders of you_  
_Are everywhere I go_

_It's late and morning's in no hurry_  
_But sleep won't set me free_  
_I lie awake and try to recall_  
_How your body felt beside me_  
_When silence gets too hard to handle_  
_And the night too long_

_And this is how I see you_  
_In the snow on Christmas morning_  
_Love and happiness surround you_  
_As you throw your arms up to the sky_  
_I keep this moment by and by_

_Oh I miss you now, my love_  
_Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,_  
_Merry Christmas, my love_

_Sense of joy fills the air_  
_And I daydream and I stare_  
_Up at the tree and I see_  
_Your star up there_

_And this is how I see you_  
_In the snow on Christmas morning_  
_Love and happiness surround you_  
_As you throw your arms up to the sky_  
_I keep this moment by and by_


End file.
